


Blood

by ladyschrei



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyschrei/pseuds/ladyschrei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has a nightmare. Pete comforts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "The Phoenix" music video.

It's dark. Little light fills the room. He tries to focus his eyes. He can't move, he's trapped to the seat. He hears voices, but they're too far off.  
  
Someone's behind him. They fist his hair, yanking his head back. Stars pop in front of his eyes. He feels hot breath on his neck. They whisper something into his ear. He can't hear. He tries to respond, but his mouth is too dry. He coughs, wheezing as he tries to take a breath. His ribs hurt when he breathes in.  
  
A faint sound. Dull, buzzing. It grows louder, and louder, until he finally looks up. His eyes go wide as he stares at the saw inches from his head. He begins to thrash around.  
  
Another one, in front of him now. He sees something shine in their hands. Something hard presses against his neck. He tries to lean away from it. He hears giggling.  
  
Something cold smacks his left arm, his shoulder. He hisses in pain and tries to squirm away, but to no avail. Another smack. And another. His arm is sore as the chain continues to whip him from his wrist to nearly his neck.  
  
They untie his arm and force it up. He cries out in pain, his voice lost as soon as it leaves. A wooden table suddenly appears. They place his arm down, tying it up at the wrist. He struggles, the table wobbling with him.  
  
Another laugh. Something shiny raising up above his head.  
  
“No,” he tries to beg, “please!”  
  
It comes down. He lets out a scream as his hand separates from the rest of his body.  
  
He fades in and out. He can feel his blood loss. So much blood. He wants to be sick to his stomach.  
  
Harsh lights in his face. He tries to take a deep breath, his vision swimming. Blood everywhere. On his clothes, his face. They've wrapped his wrist in a dirty white cloth, soaked with blood. He gasps, trying to suck in as much air as he can. One strokes his hair. Another strokes his arm.  
  
The figures are dark, looming above him. One leans into his face, long hair tickling his nose. He tries to focus again as they pull away.  
  
He's strapped down. He tries to grab at the strap, tugging on it. He hears metal scratching metal, and glances over. A table placed next to the bed, sprayed with blood and covered in its entirety with different surgical objects. They grab a pair of scissors.  
  
He feels his shirt being cut open, the ruined fabric pushed to either side of his chest. One strokes his side, and he lets out a whimper at the touch, feeling the air draining from him.  
  
He screams at the first cut, feeling the metal object rip his flesh. They cut him all over; his side, his chest, his arm, his shoulder, all around the tight jeans hugging his hips. Blood spills from him, trailing down the bed and leaking to the floor.  
  
He tries to push the two away. They laugh at him, cutting some more. The lights are blinding. He hears the roar of another saw, feeling the blade shred through his bones.  
  
He looks to his good arm. A cut runs the entire forearm, blood running out slowly, making an intricate pattern on his arm. He watches as the pattern runs together and starts a long stream to the concrete floor. He feels as if his head has been separated from the rest of his body; it's the only thing he's aware of. Everything else is numb. Gone.  
  
But then the pain comes back, and it comes back fast and hard. He's screaming. He tries to move but can't. He wants to die but can't. The pain continues, going on and on, watching as the blade tears through his chest, his organs on display. Blood spurts up and covers his nose, dripping to his lips. He tastes metal and rust; smells it too.  
  
He's aware of someone calling his name. The figures above him twist into the light, growing fainter and fainter. Their smiles, though, are unmistakable. One reaches for him, grabbing his throat and squeezing.


	2. The Reality

Patrick's sick.  
  
He feels someone rubbing his back as he vomits over the side of the bed, tensing up at the touch.  _Pete_ , he thinks. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and faints back into the pillows, gasping for breath as he curls into fetal position.  
  
Pete looms above him, eyebrows drawn together. “Patrick?” Pete asks quietly, “are you okay? Hey.” Pete touches his cheek, then his forehead gently. “You're burning up,” he whispers.  
  
Patrick reaches up with his other hand and wipes sweat from his forehead, shutting his eyes as his breathing finally slows down. Pete's carding his fingers through his hair, murmuring softly to him that everything will be okay.  
  
Patrick nods, dozing off for a few minutes until he feels Pete move away. He watches as the bass player gets up, stripped of everything but his black boxers, and leaves the room for a few minutes, coming back with cleaning products in his hand. Pete sets them down on the table next to Patrick's head and leans over. Patrick can see the worry all over his face.  
  
“Can you make it to the bathroom while I clean this up?” Pete asks softly, putting a hand on the small of Patrick's back as he sits up.  
  
Patrick nods and starts off the bed, letting Pete maneuver him to the bathroom. Patrick sits on the rim of the tub, clutching it as Pete disappears into their bedroom for a few minutes, finally reappearing to put the cleaners away in the kitchen and wash his hands.  
  
Pete comes back in and kneels down in front of Patrick, staring at him. Patrick is soaked through his boxers and undershirt with sweat. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.  
  
“It was awful, Pete,” he whispers, clutching the tub tighter.  
  
“You're safe,” Pete reminds him. Patrick nods as Pete keeps repeating, “I mean it, Patrick, you're safe.”  
  
Finally, when Patrick feels he can breathe again, he stands at the sink and brushes his teeth, swishing mouthwash around and spitting it out. Pete keeps hold of his arm the entire time.  
  
The room still smells like cleaner, so Patrick opts to sit at the kitchen table while Pete makes himself a cup of coffee and goes hunting for tea for Patrick, pushing and shoving things around in the cabinets.  
  
“I'm fine with coffee,” Patrick says groggily, rubbing at his eye as he hears the first birds chirp outside.  
  
“I know there's some in here somewhere,” Pete huffs to himself, completely ignoring Patrick's request.  
  
Finally Pete finds some leftover peppermint tea from when he'd had the flu a few months ago and makes Patrick a cup.  
  
Patrick sips it carefully as Pete sits opposite him, slurping his coffee. They both burn their tongues.  
  
Patrick doesn't even realize he's dozing off until Pete shakes him, that worried look crossing his face again.  
  
“'M fine,” Patrick mutters, putting his chin in his hand again and closing his eyes.  
  
“Let's go back to bed,” Pete offers. How long had he been standing next to Patrick like that for?  
  
Pete hauls Patrick to his feet and takes him to bed. The smell is nearly gone from the room now.  
  
As soon as Patrick lays down, though, he finds himself wide awake. He curls into Pete's side, Pete wrapping an arm around him and stroking his back. Patrick focuses on the faint whir of the ceiling fan above the bed.  
  
“Wanna tell me about it?” Pete murmurs, turning to kiss Patrick's forehead.  
  
Patrick shrugs, snuggling closer. He tries to follow the same breathing pattern as Pete, shutting his eyes as the dream floods back.  
  
“Patrick?” Pete whispers, rubbing at Patrick's shoulders. “It's alright. You're safe, I'm here.”  
  
“There was so much blood,” Patrick nearly cuts Pete off, shuddering. “Just – blood.  _Everywhere_. They had me tied down, and were cutting me and laughing. It hurt so bad, but no one could hear me screaming. It's just – the blood, Pete.”  
  
“Hey,” Pete warns, sitting Patrick up quickly as another wave of nausea hits. “Hey,” he says more softly. “Just calm down, okay? Calm down.” Pete rubs at his back as Patrick tries to breathe. “There's nothing to be worried about now, okay? It's over. It was just a nightmare. It's over now. No one can hurt you, I promise.”  
  
Patrick nods as he and Pete lay back, Patrick pulling the comforter up over them and curling into Pete once more.  
  
After some more silence, as Pete is dozing off, he's brought back by the sound of Patrick's voice. He's talking about his nightmare again. The different things they'd done – cutting off his hand, cutting his side and chest and arms. And all the blood. Patrick shudders.  
  
“It's okay,” Pete whispers, and the two are quiet once again.  
  
Pete tries to stay awake for Patrick's sake, but it doesn't work very well, and soon he's fast asleep. Patrick listens to him snore, watches the rise and fall of his chest. Patrick leans up and kisses his cheek, laying his head back down and staring at the opposite wall.  
  
It takes some time, but Patrick eventually falls back asleep.


End file.
